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“You mentioned that already.”
“Because—holy shit.”
She glanced around, trying to figure out what was going on. “What is— Oh, there’s Malcolm. Maybe he found something to eat?”
“Is that Carlsen?”
Olive was already walking toward Malcolm to find something edible and skip the whole sunscreen nonsense altogether, but when she heard Adam’s name, she stopped dead in her tracks. Or maybe it wasn’t Adam’s name but the way Anh was saying it. “What? Where?”
Jeremy pointed at the Ultimate Frisbee crowd. “That’s him, right? Shirtless?”
“Holy shit,” Anh repeated, her vocabulary suddenly pretty limited, given her twentysomething years of education. “Is that a six-pack?”
Jeremy blinked. “Might even be an eight-pack.”
“Are those his real shoulders?” Anh asked. “Did he have shoulder-enhancement surgery?”
“That must be how he used the MacArthur grant,” Jeremy said. “I don’t think shoulders like that exist in nature.”
“God, is that Carlsen’s chest?” Malcolm leaned his chin over Olive’s shoulder. “Was that thing under his shirt while he was ripping my dissertation proposal a new one? Ol. Why didn’t you say that he was shredded?”
Olive just stood there, rooted to the ground, arms dangling uselessly at her sides. Because I didn’t know. Because I had no idea. Or maybe she had, a bit, from seeing him push that
truck the other day—though she’d been trying to suppress that particular mental image.
“Unbelievable.” Anh pulled Olive’s hand toward herself, overturning it to squirt a healthy dose of lotion on her palm. “Here, put this on your shoulders. And your legs. And your face, too—you’re probably at high risk for all sorts of skin stuff, Freckles McFreckleface. Jer, you too.”
Olive nodded numbly and began to massage the sunscreen into her arms and thighs. She breathed in the smell of coconut oil, trying hard not to think about Adam and about the fact that he really did look like that. Mostly failing, but hey.
“Are there actual studies?” Jeremy asked.
“Mmm?” Anh was pulling her hair up in a bun.
“On the link between freckles and skin cancer.”
“I don’t know.”
“Feels like there would be.”
“True. I wanna know now.”
“Hold on. Is there Wi-Fi here?”
“Ol, do you have internet?”
Olive wiped her hands on a napkin that looked mostly unused. “I left my phone in Malcolm’s car.”
She turned her head away from Anh and Jeremy, who were now studying the screen of Jeremy’s iPhone, until she had a good view of the Ultimate Frisbee group—fourteen men and zero women. It probably had to do with the general excess of testosterone in STEM programs. At least half the players were faculty or postdocs. Adam, of course, and Tom, and Dr. Rodrigues, and several others from pharmacology. All equally shirtless. Though, no. Not equal at all. There was really nothing equal about Adam.
Olive wasn’t like this. She really was not. She could count the number of guys she’d been this viscerally attracted to on one hand. Actually—on one finger. And at the moment said guy was running toward her, because Tom Benton, bless his heart, had just thrown the Frisbee way too clumsily, and it was now in a patch of grass approximately ten feet from Olive. And Adam, shirtless Adam, just happened to be the one closest to where it landed.
“Oh, check out this paper.” Jeremy sounded excited.
“Khalesi et al., 2013. It’s a meta-analysis. ‘Cutaneous markers of photo-damage and risk of basal cell carcinoma of the skin.’ In Cancer Epidemiology, Biomarkers & Prevention.”
Jeremy fist-pumped. “Olive, are you listening to this?”
Nope. No, she was not. She was mostly trying to empty her brain, and her eyes, too. Of her fake boyfriend and the sudden warm ache in her stomach. She just wished she were elsewhere. That she were temporarily blind and deaf.
